Intrigue
by Phoenix Falconer
Summary: Post-Numbers Crunch, Pre-Super.  Elias wants to finish what he's started, now that John's dead and Carter's out in the open.  Two parts. Reese&Carter.  COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Hey guys, I'm back.

After like, a 5 year break.

Anyhow, this is written AFTER Number Crunch but BEFORE ...whatever episode comes after that. Sorry it took so long to get up. I'm a slow writer.

Hope you enjoy,

Phoenix

* * *

><p>He had told her she wasn't alone.<p>

It is a lie.

One month ago, it was not a lie. And now today, exactly one month later as of 10:54 PM, it is a lie. She finally accepts that she will no longer be receiving cryptic phone calls or be seeing dark shadows following her. She knew he was dead the time she saw the bullets soar through the air and create crimson art across her vigilante's abdomen and leg. But she never really accepted it.

She _knows_ he is dead. She knows _exactly_ where he was shot and she heard the sickening splash of blood at the car, as he and the Little Guy paused on her demands. She saw the blood spatters in the stairwell and she saw the beginning stages of someone who is going into shock.

And what does she do to repay his help and the life debt she now owes him?

She kills him.

Mark Snow was furious that night, that night exactly a month ago. But now he shows up in her office, a pleased and content look on his rat face.

She wants to put two bullets in him: one through the lower part of his lung, where surely her vigilante—John, she now knows him as—was hit, and another in his thigh, exactly where his femoral artery is. So either way, he will suffocate to death (through the puncture in his lungs) or he will bleed out do death. So either way, Snow feels the exact pain John felt moments before his death.

Snow calls her into a private room.

Fusco gives her a concerned look, and watches her as she leaves.

Snow speaks first, "Please, take a seat, Detective."

She knows her lip curls at his tone. "I'd rather not."

He narrows his eyes. "I must insist."

They are at a standoff.

It is then that she realizes he is a sadist. A power-hungry sadist. He likes being in control. And he likes to cause pain—emotional, psychological, and physical. That's why he aimed to injure, rather than to kill. And that is what has been bothering her all these days: if they wanted John dead, why not shoot for a kill shot that would have put him down right then and there? A kill shot that would have stopped his heart or put a bullet in his head? And that is why Mark Snow is personally here to deliver information: he wants her reaction, and he wants to cause her psychological and emotional pain.

Well, she's not going to give it to him.

"You'll be pleased to know that John is dead," he says triumphantly as she acquiesces and takes a seat. "We found his body and made a positive ID."

She doesn't answer or ask the many questions in her mind.

"Do you have paperwork for me?" She asks stoically. "Because I have cases I need to work on. I do not need information I already know."

He raises an eyebrow and pounces on the bait she foolishly left hanging from her hand. "You already know this, do you?"

She is momentarily flustered and he gazes at her intently. "Well, yes," she answers quickly. "I haven't gotten any cryptic phone calls nor has he been showing up at my crime scenes. And there's been a mysterious lack of my suspects being neatly tied up waiting for me."

She stares back at him, challenging him to continue questioning her. But he doesn't. Instead, he goes into his briefcase and pulls out files:

"TERMINATION OF OPERATION ACHILLES IV," it reads, with the CIA emblem printed in embossed silver.

"We just need you to sign on the 'witness' line," he says conversationally. "And sign the waiver allowing your statement to be included in the file."

Operation Achilles IV? She mulls over that in her mind as she numbly signs "Jocelyn Carter" in the two lines he'd indicated.

He continues talking, "On the behalf of the Central Intelligence Agency, we thank you for your cooperation in the termination of one rogue agent, known as John," he continues, neglecting to say his last name, and instead saying something about her assistance in the case as helping save countless innocent lives.

She stands up and cuts him off. "Is that all?" She asks harshly. Without waiting for a reply, she leaves.

Detective Carter likes to characterize people she knows in terms of animals. She likes to think of herself as a raven: intelligent, dangerous, and sociable. Her son, Taylor, right now is like a young coyote: curious and smart and cunning, but still gangly and stupid at times. Mark Snow, on the other hand, she thinks of as a blue jay: a species of bird that some admire because of their charisma, but once you get to know a blue jay, you will know that they are a species of bird that will shamelessly kill other birds and eat the eggs of other birds.

Quite despicable, but quite true.

And she had always thought of her vigilante, John, as a wolf, or maybe like a black panther. Some animal that is a bit of a loner. So yes, a panther, because wolves are pack animals and she knows John isn't sociable. Panthers, on the other hand, keep to the dark and watch, observe, and then pounce.

Too bad she was the foolish native guide that lead the poachers straight to their trophy kill in the concrete jungle of Manhattan.

Fusco looks back up at her. "What did _la cia _want?"

"My signature," she sighs quietly. "It's confirmed," she says louder, raising her head, her fingers to her temples. She meets Fusco's gaze. "My vigilante—John, I don't even know his last name—is dead."

Fusco looks taken aback. Surprised. "Really?" He asks, someone shocked. "I thought he was invincible. He sure acted like it."

"Yeah, well, so did Achilles," she answers quietly, picking her coat up. "At least, until someone exposed his Achilles Heel for him."

She leaves the office.

The days pass by in a blur. No cryptic phone calls, no helpful hints, no reports of a man in a suit at her crime scenes. It dawns on her that she might want to start wearing her bulletproof vest again. If he is gone, that means no one is keeping Elias in check. And Elias might want to make another attempt on her life again.

But then she realizes, she would relish the pain of a bullet passing through her body. She would love to feel the pain he did, that pain she caused him. But she remembers Taylor, and ultimately decides to wear her Kevlar again.

She is walking uptown, back to her apartment one night. She is no longer keeping track of the days, but is keeping track of the number of cases she is solving.

It is surprisingly high, compared to the numbers before the vigilante's death. (She still can't rationalize 'John' with 'the vigilante'. It doesn't sound right to her.)

She hears her phone ring, and answers numbly. "Carter."

"Detective," the other side answers—a man. "I want you to hear something."

She freezes. "Who is this?" she demands. But is greeted with silence.

"Mom?"

Ice courses through her veins. "Taylor? Taylor!"

"Mom, don't—"

The man's voice replaces Taylor's and her hand flies to her gun.

"I'm sending you GPS coordinates, Detective," he says smoothly, "Involve no one else. I will know if you do. You have thirty minutes."

The phone is silent.

And she knows immediately, that this is Elias. She doesn't think—she acts immediately. She calls a cab and plugs in the GPS coordinates into her iPhone, that was sent to her by a restricted number. She numbly instructs the cab driver to stop a block before the exact coordinates given to her. She is repeating one phrase in her mind: _Save Taylor, save Taylor, save Taylor…_

And she walks the rest of the way. No one is going to save her this time, no one is going to protect her and no one will be there to shoot her killer this time.

The best she can hope for is for Taylor to walk away unscathed. The best she can hope for…

Her phone rings again. "What do you want?"

"Walk towards the warehouse," the man, Elias, directs smoothly. "Stop approximately 20 feet in front of it."

"Let Taylor go and I will," she answers defiantly.

"Do what I say and I will," he fires back. "Or I can shoot him right now."

She numbly follows his instructions.

She stops, mentally counting the feel from the entrance to the warehouse. Four men emerge.

Charlie Burton is the first, flanked by two men holding her boy between them. He is handcuffed and he shouts when he sees her, "Mom!"

"Let him go," Carter demands loudly. "Let him go and I'll give you what you want."

He smirks at her. "That's not how it works, Detective," he says smoothly. "I just have one question for you to confirm—is John dead?"

So he knows John too. She has two options: lie, and bluff and threaten, or tell the truth, and risk death.

Taylor is tense and trying to look brave, and she opens her mouth to give an answer, when Elias' phone rings.

He frowns at it as he looks down, and answers, "You better have a good reason for interrupting me, darling."

_Darling?_ So he does have some sort of weakness. There's a broad involved in all this. She watches him carefully, debating whether or not to draw her weapon and take a chance at shooting—but she knows that a risk like that would still result in Taylor's death. And she cannot risk that, no matter what.

Elias' demeanor suddenly changes from annoyed to furious as he answers, "Prove it."

As though in reply, there is a loud blast and there is now a hole through Elias' pant leg. Precision. It didn't actually hit Elias, but rather, went through the fabric on the side.

Elias is snarling as he whips his head toward the direction of the gunshot. Carter wishes she knew what was happening, but even she is stunned at the turn of events. She has a suspicion, but it's not plausible.

"Let her go," Elias says suddenly as he turns to the warehouse rooftop behind Carter. "A trade," he says. "I let the kid go, you let Cora go." A pause. "No. One or the other; the kid or your pet cop."

Carter turns slightly to glance over her shoulder in the direction of Elias' furious gaze to see two figures on the roof. The taller one, a man, is holding a gun to the smaller one, a woman. Across the man's chest she can see the clear outline of a sniper rifle.

Her heart skips a beat.

Elias is visibly antagonized now. "Fine," he spits, and orders his men to release Taylor. He runs to her and she embraces him, choosing to draw her gun now that there is no threat to Taylor.

"You win, this time, Detective," he spits at her. And suddenly, like that, Elias and his men melt away into the shadows. She turns, her gun drawn and cocked, Taylor behind her—and glances back up at the warehouse, but both figures are gone.

"C'mon, Taylor," she says urgently, "We're getting out of here."

She knows for the time being she will be safe, with that benign dark shadow watching her every footstep, but still, doesn't risk it as she calls Fusco to pick her up.

* * *

><p>She is starting to feel more emotion as she considers what happened. She may not be responsible for the vigilante's death. Her joy is more palpable, the pain more hurtful. And for once, she feels less guilty.<p>

Although she is starting to get impatient, waiting for him to contact her. She waits restlessly by her office phone, and finds herself whipping around suddenly in the streets to catch him. Of course, he's never there.

Still, she waits.

For the time being, however, she sent Taylor to stay at his grandmother's house. She doesn't want him caught in the crossfire and after the scare he suffered from Elias' men, he agrees to stay there, although he is increasingly nervous for her own safety. He has many questions about that night, but she refuses to answer them until she gets clearer answers.

So, she waits.

It doesn't take long. 72 hours pass before he contacts her. In a rather startling way, too.

She unlocks the door to her apartment and steps through the threshold, hanging her coat up neatly on the coat rack and kicking off the heels she had been wearing all day at the office. She drops her purse and files on the sofa before heading down the dark hall to her bedroom.

She passes her office first on the right of the hallway, and immediately senses him emerge behind her. Instinctively, her right hand grips her sidearm—a Ruger- and begins to withdraw it—but he is fast and already has her forearm in a vicelike grip. Again, instinctively, she counteracts with her left hand and brings it up to break his nose—but he hooks his left arm around hers and brings it down, then shoves her forward, so she is pressed against the wall firmly. It doesn't hurt, but it does immobilize her.

She is tense and breathes heavily, trying to regain her bearings.

"You know, Joss," he says softly, close to her ear. "I don't fancy getting shot again, nor do I fancy the idea of getting a nosebleed."

She forces herself to calm down, caught in his arms quite literally. She breathes heavily, more startled by the body contact he was making with her: his chest is pressed right up against her back, and she could feel his leg hooked around her left one to keep her immobile. If this was anyone else, she would have been fighting to the end—no way would some strange man manhandle her like that!—but she knew that there was no way she could beat him even in a fair fight, and she also knew that, more importantly, he wasn't going to harm her. He slowly lets go of her arms and she turns around. She feels his hand brush against her hip and the weight of her firearm is no longer resting on her waist. There's a click as he ejects the magazine and tosses it across the hall. She ignores the _clack! _it makes when it makes contact against her hardwood floor.

He gazes down at her in the dim light of the hallway as she sizes him up.

"You aren't dead," she states.

He cocks an eyebrow. "Well noted." He hands her weapon back to her. She numbly accepts it.

She shakes her head vigorously and then pushes past him back into her living room and kitchen area. He stands to the side, and then follows her, a dark shadow.

She goes straight to the kitchen area and pours herself a glass of red wine, offering him a glass as well. He graciously accepts the offer, and then she leads him to the living room.

She observes him as he walks. He is not limping, and he does not act like he is in pain. His grey-blue eyes are steady on her dark brown ones as he takes a sip of the red wine.

"I'm quite surprised you aren't trying to arrest me, Joss," he says softly, setting the glass down on the coffee table between them.

"I'm quite surprised you aren't dead," she shoots back, almost in a furious tone. "I don't get it, John—if that is your real name—how did you survive that? Snow even told me they had your body!"

He leans back and waves his hand flippantly. "They have a body that was in a terrible car fire up in LBI, that I planted with my DNA. As for how I survived it, there are many people who owe me life debts. I chose to utilize those a month ago."

"I still don't understand, John. What is it that you do? Why do these people owe you life debts?" She is confused.

He tilts his head slightly, and blinks twice before answering, "I receive intel on people who may be involved in murders. I do my best to either prevent a killing or to direct police to arrest the person responsible."

"Where do you get this intel?" She is fascinated at this point, and suddenly, she realizes that she doesn't want to arrest him. She just wants to listen to him.

"Various sources," he answers vaguely. "I cannot give you any additional information past that."

"Okay, fine," she says, recognizing that he won't. "Will you at least tell me how you knew immediately that I was in danger, that Taylor was?"

He leans forward and smirks, before sticking his hand into his suit pants pocket and pulling out an iPhone. "I cloned your phone."

"You did _what?"_ She is stunned. "John, that's illegal!"

He shrugs, his eyes glittering with laughter. "So is my vigilante work. So is being in possession of a grenade launcher. So is shooting multiple people. So is entering an NYPD detective's home without her permission. And besides, would you rather I not be watching out for you?"

Carter rubs her temples, and picks up the glass of wine again. "I don't understand," she says softly. "Why are you following me? Why are you so interested in me? If I didn't know you weren't going to hurt me—something I'm still not so sure about—" he looks genuinely offended at this remark, but she continues, "I would think you are stalking me."

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeats, but doesn't answer her other statement.

"So then, why are you following me?"

He leans forward, his eyes trained on her. "You intrigue me."

"Stalker," she mutters under her breath, breaking his very direct gaze. He doesn't give any indication that he heard her, although she knows he must have.

She stands up with her empty wine glass and picks his up as well, and places both gently in the sink. She sighs, breathing deeply, trying to decide her next course of action. Arrest him? Call for back up? Invite him to stay the night?

She is _very _tempted to resort to the last option. Seeing him in decent light, without blood and sweat drenching every pore of his body makes her realize that he is quite attractive.

She turns away from the sink, to find that John had followed her into the kitchen and had somehow taken her Ruger from her holster. _Again. _She didn't even feel it. She passes by him to get to her kitchen table: a modest little light pinewood table, seeing as it's only her and Taylor that live in the apartment. She realizes suddenly how comfortable she is with him in her home as she unbuckles her belt and relieves her waist of the pressure of carrying the gun, holster, handcuffs, pepper spray, etc…. She doesn't make any attempt to stop him or get the weapon back from him.

"Impressive piece," he says casually, as if chatting about sidearms was regular every day talk to him. It probably is. "I'm surprised you use a Ruger. I made you out for a Beretta kind of cop."

She shrugs. "Berettas are nice, but my father trained me with a Ruger when target shooting. In the military I used a Smith & Wesson but after that, I went back to a Ruger because I like the feel of it in my hands. They are more reliable."

He flips it in his hands and offers her the handle. She hesitates a moment before accepting it, then takes it to lock into her gun cabinet in her room.

"Wait here," she orders him. "I'm just going to lock this up in my room."

He raises an eyebrow at her and smirks. "Nothing I haven't already seen before."

"You—_what?" _Then she remembers, he was in her apartment before she even arrived home. "_You went through my room?"_

Her hand twitches on the Ruger, as though she briefly considers shooting him. She expects him to back up and apologize, but instead he takes a step closer to her—and says, "I prefer to know the people who are trying to get me killed."

She doesn't like the way he is looking at her. His gaze is so direct, he doesn't stop watching her. She ducks away from him, choosing not to pursue the topic of him being in her room. She would actually prefer not to know the details.

"Yeah, sorry about that, John," she answers wearily. "I didn't expect them to open fire."

Unsurprisingly, he follows her again, his soft footsteps similar to the panther she had pictured him as. "Speaking of," she continues conversationally, "How are you, anyways? Bullet-hole wise, I mean."

"Your friend Mark Snow and his sniper pal gave me two new scars to show off," he answers. "Numbers nineteen and twenty. Still some soreness. But it takes a lot to kill me. Can't quite bend over entirely, but my leg is fine. I was in a wheelchair for a week, crutches for another week, and now I'm almost able to go back to my job."

_Nineteen and twenty? _He's been shot twenty times total? Carter is shocked, but she tries not to let it show. He stops at the threshold to her room as she enters and opens the safe, then slides her handgun in.

He leans against the frame of the door, one foot slightly inside her room. She analyzes the implications of him even _watching _her move about in her bedroom, and immediately shuts him out.

"Get out, John," she says, but she is smiling as she approaches him and puts her hands on his chest, pushing him away from her bedroom. He obediently backs up, although she knows he could easily subdue her. His eyes are dancing with laughter.

"Another question," she begins as she leads him out of the hallway and back into the living room. "What is your real name?"

He laughs softly. "You're not going to get that out of me. You already know I go by John. That's enough for now."

"No, John, it's not!" she says angrily. "I don't know enough about you. Somehow, it seems like you know everything about me, and I still have no clue about your identity."

He turns his back on her—the first time he's done so, she notices, and walks to the door.

_He's leaving_, she realizes suddenly. _No!_

"Wait!" she calls. He stops, his hand hovering on the doorknob. "You're leaving?"

He turns around and faces her, steely blue eyes locked on her brown ones. "I've overstayed my welcome. When you start asking personal questions, I leave."

"But I—will I see you again?" She doesn't mean it to sound pleading, but to her surprise, it does. She wishes she could take back that question, but it's too late.

He smirks. "Jocelyn Cart_errr—" _he is practically _purring,_ she realizes. Her breath hitches at the implications. "You want to see me again? I would think you would demand I disable my phone, refrain from monitoring you, and breaking into your home."

"I—" She pauses, confused. "You're monitoring me?"

"Whenever someone gets involved with me, it's a given that their life will be in danger. That is why, to my parents, my sisters and my brother I am dead. To my former fiancee, I am dead. I was intending on staying dead to you, too, after Snow took the shot at me, but I knew I had to do something to save you and Taylor. I wasn't going to sit by and watch Elias kill a fourteen year old boy's mother, not after he had already lost his father. Oh, and also—do you still plan on trying to arrest me, or have you decided that it is a fruitless endeavor?"

"I…" she thinks this over. "I can't arrest someone who is dead in the eyes of the United States," she finally says. "But…but if I do see you while I am on patrol, I will try to arrest you. When I'm off duty though… I am no longer representing the interests of the United States. Sound…sound fair?"

He laughs softly, "You really do want to see me again, don't you, Jos." It's not a question. It's a definitive statement, a declaration. She doesn't try to deny it. What's the point, anyways? She does want to see him again. She does want his advice and his counsel, she wants him back in her life. His cryptic demeanor and his unpredictability was reassuring from a professional standpoint. From a personal standpoint, she's also relieved he is back in her life and that he is watching over Taylor for her. And watching over her, as much as she tells herself that she doesn't need his protection.

So she replies simply, "You fascinate me too. Or rather, you _intrigue _me."

His eyes flicker, and he opens the door before leaving her with a last warning: "Also, Joss, the CIA is monitoring your phone calls, email and even the security footage in your office. I've seen some people tailing you. They are afraid that I might not actually be dead, and reach out to you. Just something to keep in mind."

And then he's gone.

**Read and Review! **Part II to be updated February 25, but if I receive 10 reviews before then, it will be updated then. (Part II already finished and editted.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Wow! That was fast! I did not anticipate waking up to seeing I already had 10 reviews, but I suppose threats really do work... (I also didn't mean Feb 25th till next update-I meant to say Feb 15. Awhh well, too late now. I did get the results I wanted, haha :D )

Here's Part II. There're only two parts to this but there is a mini-one shot spin off I may write.

Thanks,

Phoenix.

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><p>CHAPTER II<p>

It's relieving to find him back in her life. He keeps his promise and doesn't leave her alone. It takes a while, but once he's sure the CIA has stopped monitoring her (approximately five months after his shooting) he resumes helping her out on her cases. She doesn't ask for it outright, but if she drops a hint that "You know, it's hard to get a warrant for so-and-so's arrest in the murder of so-and-so," he will get her the information she needs to get that warrant. Or, if she's having a hard time tracking down someone, he will find that person within forty-eight hours.

He has stopped gift-wrapping her suspects though, out of fear that it would arouse the CIA's suspicion again.

Taylor has moved back into her apartment after reassuring him that it's safe now. She told him that she spoke with the man who had saved their lives and he said that he would keep the pressure on the man that kidnapped him. Taylor, although as curious as any fourteen year old boy, finally accepted that his mother wasn't going to tell her much more than that.

He doesn't contact her often as she would like. John, that is. He gets his information to her via letters dropped into her mail box, evidence sent in a box to her work, etc. She's seen him twice, however, while she was on duty. The first time he looked genuinely surprised to see her, too—seemed like both of their cases overlapped, but just as quickly as she saw him, he disappeared like the shadow he is with the next wave of people to intercept them.

The second time she saw him while on duty was during a hostage negotiation crisis that had quickly turned dangerous when the suspect pulled out a weapon and aimed the .44 revolver at his own son's head.

She had quickly reacted: she pulled out her own weapon and leveled it at the suspect's head, but she knew the chance that she might hit the nine year old boy was unlikely but possible. They had no snipers set up and no one else who could intervene when there was a very silent "Pop!" that went off, and suddenly the man crumpled. NYPD moved in quickly and took the boy and ran off while other armed officers moved in. They were surprised to see a neat bullet hole above the man's left ear.

She glanced up and was unsurprised to see his silhouette with a sniper rifle in the parking structure above them. He nodded at her then disappeared again.

Then there are the times that she's seen him while not on duty, which are more often. It's always on the days that her son stays with his friends or his grandmother, something she is relieved about. She is always sure to call Taylor when she'll be home late, because she knows that John will also get the message. And sure enough, about fifty percent of the time (about once a week, once every two weeks) he is waiting for her in her apartment.

It's nice to have someone as experienced as her to mentor her and give her new information. It's relieving to have someone to rant to who understands her. It's just generally… relaxing, knowing that someone as skilled as he is will be helping her for as long as he can.

She's finally learned not to ask questions about his past or his identity. Whenever she even draws near to the subject, he leaves. She would love to get him into one of her interrogation rooms at the Department, but she has a feeling even if she did manage that, he would just as easily break out and incapacitate everyone else in the office. She no longer underestimated him.

So when one night, after a particularly long meeting with her superiors-in which they scorned her and reprimanded her for the handling of one particular case—she calls home and tells Taylor she will not be there until late and wants him to stay with his grandmother. She is hoping that John will get the message and is not otherwise pre-occupied with whatever vigilantes do late at night. She needs him right now. She needs him to be there, she needs to talk with him and she needs his help.

And she needs an outlet for all her pent-up tension.

Oh, lord, she's praying that he will be there.

She unlocks the door and enters. It's quiet as ever, but that never indicates anything. It's always quiet, and still when she comes home, even when he's there. He has a habit of just silently emerging out of the shadows—which suits her just fine. She finds it attractive.

She kicks off her heels, and can't wait to get out of her dress pants and put on sweats. But that has to wait, because as she passes by the living room she suddenly becomes aware of his presence. She turns to see him leaning up against the wall opposite her.

He is loading and unloading one of her personal guns. No doubt he broke into her safe. On the coffee table are her other two weapons, freshly cleaned and oiled.

Without looking up he says, "I took the liberty of giving your extra three weapons the cleaning they deserve."

She doesn't even want to know how he broke into her fireproof safe, and who knows what else he saw in there. He sees the question in her eyes and quickly answers, "I didn't take out anything else, I promise."

Despite her better judgment, she asks wearily, "How did you break open my safe?" The code is something completely random; nothing to do with her birthday, Taylor's birthday, her PIN, her SSN...

He shoves the clip back into the gun and smirks, not deigning to give a response.

As per usual, Joss removes her suit jacket and purse, hanging them over the sofa and then sets her weapon and badge on the table.

"You're frustrated," he states.

"Yes," she answers shortly. "Yes, John, I am frustrated. I am frustrated at work, with my supervisors, with the Captain, with you."

He cocks an eyebrow, releasing the gun's clip again. _Click. _It slides into his hand. "Care to tell me why?"

"Somehow, you know everything about me. You know my childhood, my academic record, my military records, everything. And you won't tell me how you know this. I am frustrated with the relative ease you seem to accomplish your objectives with. I am…I'm disturbed by your cryptic stalking techniques and I want to know who you are, how you do what you do, and why you are doing it!"

He gazes at her steadily, shoving the gun clip back into its chamber. _Click. _"I'm not going to tell you anything that could put you in significant danger."

"Dammit, John, I can take care of myself!"

"Really?" he asks, his usually stoic voice taking on a new tone of skepticism and amusement. He sets the gun down and pulls something out of his pocket. She moves closer to him, and recognizes the object as a bug. Someone had bugged her house?

"I found this under your table," he says. "And that's not all." He pulls out a vial in his pocket containing five more, as well as a government-issued surveillance camera.

"One under your table, another at the entrance to your door, one in your room, under your home phone, in your living room. And the camera was set up in that vent."

"I…" She is speechless.

"CIA bugged and wiretapped your home, Carter," he says severely. "I knew because I had also done the exact same thing, except I clearly did a better job than them because they did not find my cameras or bugs. They did this last week—this is why I haven't made contact with you for more than a week. I had to find their frequency and cut it before I could even think about making contact. Clearly, they still think I'm alive and I am contacting you."

"How do you know if you got every one of them out of here?" Her voice raises shrilly in a panic. She doesn't care so much if John has her home bugged, because she trusts him not to hurt her—but the CIA, on the other hand, has proven that they want to hurt John and her.

"Because I used to be like them. I know how they think," he answers coldly. "I know exactly how they operate and I know how to anticipate their moves. But that's not why I'm here." He pauses, his eyes flashing.

She freezes, sensing that it was going to head downhill very fast.

"I will be leaving New York for the next four days," he says slowly, carefully. "So I need you to be careful. Elias might choose to make a move if he knows I'm gone. I don't think he will, because I've made it quite clear what will happen if he—or the man who gave him permission for the hit on you—lays a finger on you. But I don't trust him. I don't want to come back to the City to find out that you've gone and done something reckless. So stay close to your partner, try to stay in the office as much as possible. Okay?"

"I can take care of myself," she flares up at him, and if she were a wolf, Reese could easily imagine her teeth being bared, hackles raised. But that doesn't stop him—he wants her to see exactly how vulnerable she is. How _breakable _she is. He could snap her neck in the space of a half second; he could break both her legs in three seconds; he could blind her permanently in one second; he could cause any number of damage to her in less than five seconds, and she wouldn't have the time to get in one counterstrike. And he knows that Snow could do the same. He knows that Snow _will _do the same if he thought it would get him to come out to the open.

"Can you?" he asks softly, walking closer to her. "I have no doubt about your abilities handling a gun and getting your job done, but I do doubt your ability to _keep yourself safe._ You have a tendency for recklessness, after all," he adds. "Considering you dared to take on _me."_

"You don't need to worry," she retorts furiously, standing up straight and staring him in the eye. The intimidation factor was considerably lessened, seeing as she had kicked off her heels and he still stood a good half foot taller than her, maybe more. "I am perfectly capable to taking on Snow or any of your other Navy SEAL, Marine, or Special Forces guys. I _still _have no idea what you were, by the way."

He doesn't take the bait, but he is hoping _she_ will. "You wouldn't stand a chance," he growls down at her, trying to make her see. It dawns on him that maybe he isn't trying to make her see how vulnerable she is—he's trying to make her see how he can't lose her. This thought unnerves him, that somehow, maybe she's become more than just an asset to use in investigations. He stops his train of thought and provokes her further. "You won't last three seconds against Snow."

Her eyes flash dangerously and she takes his challenge. He sees her begin to make her first move: a dirty trick, trying to connect her fist with his stomach where he was shot. But he anticipates this and sidesteps, bringing his left foot in connection with her right ankle, and easily sweeps her off her feet and into the carpet. He lands on her smoothly, his knee between her shoulder blades with his right hand pinning her wrist to the floor. His left hand slides along the back of her next and into her hair, twisting her head away from him. Reese pins her firmly into the plush carpet, holding her down by the base of her skull.

All this had taken place in less than a second. She flexes her left arm, the one not being pinned down, and tries to push upwards. But the weight of his knee being pressed between her shoulder blades renders her completely immobile. She twists her head the best she could to get a look at him, but he only increases the pressure, forcing the right side of her face into her carpet. She breathes heavily, and but he doesn't let her go.

"Do you enjoy this?" She spits out. "Making me feel inferior?" She writhes underneath him.

He smirks, although he knows she can't see it. "Making you feel inferior, no," he answers honestly. "Pinning you down? I'm thoroughly enjoying it."

She stops struggling momentarily, shocked by his presumptuousness. "You can get off now," she finally says after her breathing had slowed. "I mean it, John."

With reluctance—she can practically feel it—he slides off her, but not before running his fingers through her hair. She closes her eyes, realizing he probably has wanted this for quite a while.

He holds a hand out to her, helping her back to her feet. "Now do you see," he says quietly as she rubs her neck, trying to remove the imprint he left there. "Now do you see you need to be careful, Detective Ca_rr_te_rr."_

He is purring again. She suddenly wishes that she had more _R_s in her first name. Why couldn't she have been named Renee, or Raven? He can't purr "Joscelyn" at all…

"Are you _trying_ to seduce me?" she whispers, chills coursing through her veins as she meets his very calm ice blue eyes.

"I'm trying to make you see how important you are to me!" He answers, almost furiously. "Joss, you have no idea, the effect you have on me." He turns away from her, frustrated.

"The effect?"

"You worry me," comes the answer, so quietly she needs to strain to hear it. "Joss, I'm always afraid for you and I take any attack on you personally." He turns around to face her again. "I don't want to come back to New York City to find you dead. I don't want to come back at all if you are dead. I honestly don't know what's happening to me." For the first time, he looks uncertain. "It's been so long since I actually _felt _something that this emotion—this worry over you—I—I can't identify it."

She acts on instinct. It's complete instinct, animalistic instinct. She feels like she has no control over this; All she knows is suddenly she pushes him against the wall and reaches up, her lips connecting with his.

He is still for a moment, shocked—then he relaxes into her, bringing a hand around to the small of her back, pressing her against his chest. He kisses back, surprising even himself.

Then she is flying through the air. He had gracefully moved and twisted their position so _she _is now the one pinned against the wall. She feels his teeth scrape her lip, and Jocelyn feels pure pleasure flood her. She doesn't know how she ended up in the position, pinned against the wall with the one man she had once been out to lock up now kissing her into oblivion.

But she chooses not to dwell on it.

He growls against her, pressing her harder into the wall. His lips trail along her jawline and down her neck. She arches her neck, trying to give him more access to her throat. He pulls the should of her blouse down as he attentively strokes her collarbone while kissing and biting his way back up to her lips. She knows he will leave bruises for sure along her shoulder and neck, not to mention her side where his palm is keeping her immobilized. She squeezes her eyes shut. "_John..."_ she rasps, her hand sliding through his hair.

Suddenly, his pressure is gone. She opens her eyes, startled, to see him gazing down starkly at her, his hands vicelike—one on her left arm and the other gripping her side almost painfully. He lets go, looking down at her in complete shock.

"John?" she rasps. "John, what is it?"

He steps away, eyes wide. She's worried now—she has never seen him like this before. "John?"

"No," he whispers, completely in shock. "No, Joss. Everyone around me dies. I can't—I can't—"

He backs away. "John!" She says desperately. "What are you—"

"Stay away from me, Detective," he rasps. She can see the lust in his eyes. "You can't get close to me. I won't allow that. _I _can't get close to you."

"No, John," she says desperately. "Don't do this to me."

He pushes her aside roughly, causing her to trip. "John! Wait!" she calls out desperately, only to hear the door open and then shut.

She runs down the hall and wrenches open the door. "John!" she shrieks. The halls echo—she runs down one and then the other, before running down the stairwell to the lobby of her apartment and out onto the street.

But like the panther he is, he had vanished back into the night.

She never saw him again.

He lied. She is completely alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>

****In **Part I,** there is a reference to an "Operation Achilles." **Achilles **is the famous invincible Greek warrior at the Seige of Troy about 2000 years ago. If you have watched the movie "Troy," you would know that Achilles cannot be injured unless shot through his Achilles' heel, which happens when his "love," Briseis, exposes it for him. Achilles, like John Reese, had trusted Briseis, and Briseis, like Detective Carter, had unknowingly lead Achilles into the open to be shot and killed. ((This happens in the movie; it's nothing like this at all in the book)) This is what I was referring to when I titled it "Operation Achilles."

Also in **Part I, **Fusco says, "_la cia."_ (pronounced la see-ya) This is Spanish for The CIA. I learned this from a friend of mine who was kidnapped in Colombia by a drug cartel and pretended to be a CIA Officer. He threatened the...(all he had on him was his passport and some paperwork. Good thing they couldn't read English!)

Oh, and also... Detective Carter never _did _find the bugs Reese set up in her home, nor did she ever discover his last name.


End file.
